Rocket engines burning fuel so fastUp into the night sky they blastThrough the universe the engines whineCould it be the end of man and timeBack on earth the flame of life burns lowEverywhere is misery and woePollution kills the air, the land and seaMan prepares to meet his destiny

Rocket engines burning fuel so fastUp into the night sky so vastBurning metal through the atmosphereEarth remains in worry, hate and fearWith the hateful battles raging onrockets flying to the glowing sunThrough the empires of eternal voidFreedom from the final suicide

Freedom fighters sent out to the sunescape from brainwashed minds and pollution.Leave the earth to all its sin and hatefind another world where freedom waits.Past the stars in fields of ancient voidThrough the shields of darkness where they findLove upon a land a world unknownwhere the sons of freedom make their home

Leave the earth to Satan and his slavesleave them to their future in the graveMake a home where love is there to stayPeace and happiness in every day.

An interesting state to explore. No up, no down. No right, no left. No in, no out. No young, no old. Getting to it is the only challenge.

I've been to some pretty dark places of the mind. Don't know if I ever reached any sort of void but I remember realizing at some point that the line between losing it and just relaxing, going with it, is so minute as to be negligible. On a related note: anxiety gives birth to creation.

Remember how anxious you were about getting laid, before you actually managed to? Assuming, of course, that you ever did. Who could have imagined such anxiety could ever result in something so anxious-making as a baby???

Aquarius; I hear what you say. I would even say that anxiety necessitates creativity. Have you ever felt creative without being at least a little anxious ("how will this turn out?")? Not I. Neither can I imagine feeling anxiety without any creativity. That would be hell.

I also copy what you say about the thin line between relaxation and total loss of grip. I've been in such a situation before that I was sure that I'd lost my mind-as-I-know-it, and I knew I was close because I wasn't afraid of never being able to go back. Turns out, the mind is one of the more resilient systems known to man, despite its handful of flaws. A healthy usually has plenty of redundancies to fall back on in cases of exceptionally high stress.

The main reason I have been able to avoid insanity, along the way, is a complete inability to give up. I can't do it even if I try. While the mind gets more and more ragged, under the weight of more than it knows how to deal with, it keeps on coming up with stopgap measures, to ward off a complete collapse. The ship may be sinking, but, by God, it's going to take a very long time to completely disappear beneath the waves.

I also imagine that i know what you mean by "stop-gap" measures. One time I wondered/wandered to the point that my mind was tossing out activity ceaselessly to prevent me from getting to the central production facility of thoughts. Evidently that place is not meant for me. I'm thankful, to an extent. Sort of disappointed, as well.

Aquarius; I hear what you say. I would even say that anxiety necessitates creativity. Have you ever felt creative without being at least a little anxious ("how will this turn out?")? Not I. Neither can I imagine feeling anxiety without any creativity. That would be hell.

I see this as the process of overcoming. Anxiety is a by-product of uncertainty and a necessary part of the process (that which does not kill me, makes me stronger). And of course the greater the adversity, the broader the spectrum of potential (the sweeter the victory!)

Well said! The strange but consistent 'risk versus reward' model could be one of the mind's most powerful defenses against total nihilism (annihilation of meaning and values). Maybe it is such a robust model because it so so flexible, as well as highly personal and therefore very motivating. At any rate, I'm glad that my brain rewards me with a squirt of happy juice whenever I do something risky (favoring intensity of experience over likelehood of safety to body). It's a good thing I'm not genetically or otherwise predisposed to using drugs. My conservative upbringing probably tempered me in just the right way to keep me away from frantic self-destructive experimentation. But only by *this* much.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see whatís really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dreadOf dying, and being dead,Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse óThe good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unusedónor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climbClear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever,The sure extinction that we travel toAnd shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere,And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraidNo trick dispels. Religion used to try,That vast moth-eaten musical brocadeCreated to pretend we never die,And specious stuff that says No rational beingCan fear a thing it will not feel, not seeingThat this is what we fearóno sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with,The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages outIn furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good:It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave.Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we canít escape, Yet canít accept. One side will have to go.Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaringIntricate rented world begins to rouse.The sky is white as clay, with no sun.Work has to be done.Postmen like doctors go from house to house.